


Ice Cream and Oliver Queen

by gnimaerd



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:12:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3806593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnimaerd/pseuds/gnimaerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The inevitable reunion!smut. Felicity and Oliver’s second time; Oliver is bruised and grumpy, Felicity is less so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Cream and Oliver Queen

 

 

Their second time happens because Oliver is unwittingly attractive when beaten to crap.

Felicity tries really hard not to find bruised, bloody, exhausted Oliver sexy. But he has this sad puppy thing going on and she just wants to wrap him up and make him soup, maybe knit him a hat – if Felicity knew how to knit, she would definitely knit him a hat.

Instead he’s lying in her bed, where he let himself be deposited by Digg, shirtless so that she can better clean him up, gazing up at her from under those stupidly long lashes of his and Felicity is trying not to picture what happened the last time they were alone in a bedroom together.

But Oliver was sporting considerably fewer fractured ribs in Nanda Parbat, so it’s not like any of what happened there is going to be possible here. Felicity is just going to finish suturing the wound in his shoulder, brace his ribs and sponge the blood off his face, and then she’s going to make him eat something before he takes some super serious pain killers, and then she’ll crawl in beside him and they’ll go to sleep.

And she gets approximately two thirds of the way through that list before Oliver plants a purposeful hand on her thigh.

“Oliver.”

“Felicity.” He smiles up at her around one cracked, swollen lip, tired and painful but with something bright in his eyes.

Felicity raises a critical eyebrow at where his hand is travelling to. “Are you trying to put the moves on me, Mr Queen?”

“Would I do that?” He’s an idiot – he’s flirting with her, and he’s an idiot.

“You have like six broken ribs right now – you get that right?”

“Three. And they’re fractured.”

“Oh because that’s so much better.” Felicity occupies herself holding his chin so she can get the worst of the blood off his jaw, out of his stubble, because she’s not going to engage with this, no sir, not one bit of it.

“It’s a little better.”

Felicity prods him in the side – smirks when he grunts in pain and seems to concede her point. But he keeps his hand on her thigh, and Felicity she lets him.

Felicity has decided that Oliver Queen can put his hand on her thigh whenever he feels like it. Special privileges for Mr Queen, especially when he’s all bruised up from potentially world-saving levels of recent heroism.

Still, she’s not going to have sex with him. The day has been long and exhausting and terrifying and here, against all the odds, is Oliver, battered but alive, back in Starling, in her bed, letting her mop him up. Felicity isn’t feeling much like testing her luck any further by risking puncturing one of his lungs during an ill-timed tryst on his fractured ribs.

“Felicity.”

“Mm?”

“Just – lie down for a moment.” He blinks up at her, “just for a moment. Okay?”

“Let me finish cleaning you up.”

“I’m clean.”

“You still smell like someone dipped you in a tar pit.”

He laughs, and it sounds painful then turns into a wet, hacking cough, which isn’t at all encouraging. She holds a bottle of water to his lips.

“You’d tell me if one of your ribs punctured a lung and you were slowly suffocating, right? Vigilante’s honour?”

Oliver nods, pushes the bottle away. “I’m okay, Felicity.”

He looks like a sad, sad puppy – and Felicity wants to kiss his sad, sad face and then also potentially the parts of his sad, sad chest that are still exposed outside of the bracing on his ribs – and she’s not going to. Absolutely not. No siree. Not even if she can really vividly remember what his chest tasted like the first time around.

“Lie down with me,” he takes his hand off her thigh and gently tugs her wrist, “please.”

“Oliver.”

“Please?”

“I’m gonna get changed, first.”

Oliver watches her, from the bed, as she quietly tugs off her clothes – blood-stained and sticky with sweat and grime – pads in and out of her bathroom to wash her own face, change into her pyjamas. She can feel his gaze on her bare back, on her naked skin, and manages not to feel self-conscious. There’s something weirdly domestic in Oliver’s peaceable silence; he’s out of place here, amongst her things, in her bed, looking like he does – and yet he isn’t out of place at all. He feels familiar. He feels comforting.

“Do you want something to eat?”

“Lie down first,” he pats the bed. “Just for a while.”  
  
“You sure?”

“ _Yes_.” His expression is worn thin but gentle – he reaches out a hand, and after everything else, Felicity doesn’t have it in her to reject the invitation. She climbs back onto the bed, and sinks down next to him, on her side.

After a moment she gives up any pretence at resistance and gently swings one leg over Oliver’s thigh, settles close against him. He wraps his arms around her as she puts a hand to his jaw, careful of where he’s bruised, where the skin is broken.

When her fingers brush over his split lip, he doesn’t flinch.

“Will it hurt if I kiss you?” She murmurs, thumbing his chin.

“I’ll cope,” his mouth twitches, his gaze warm.

She kisses him, as gently as she can. He tastes of copper and salt, and he cranes his neck to kiss her back – opens his mouth, holds her a little tighter. Felicity keeps one steadying hand on his jaw, just enough to stop him trying to roll on top of her or do anything else completely ill-advised (as much as it would be awesome, right now, if he just rolled on top of her and pulled off her pyjamas and did that thing with his tongue that he did repeatedly in Nanda Parbat _oh god yes_ ), and she lets the kiss linger. Because this feels, for a moment, like everything that matters. What has she been fighting for since joining Team Arrow if not moments like this one? Moments of peace, moments of clarity, safety, pleasure and heat and joy. It’s what makes the rest of all of this worth it, surely?

Oliver in her bed, Oliver alive and holding her, his open mouth questing against her own like he’s trying to drink her up, breathe her in.

She shifts a little, her bare feet brushing his calves, trying to huddle closer to him without hurting him – which might be a little difficult given that he’s currently more bruised peach than human man, but Oliver doesn’t complain.

She feels a low rumble in his chest that she remembers from Nanda Parbat – a soft, growly purr of pleasure – he’s turned on and he wants her and Felicity is struggling to think of a good reason to tell him to stop. One of his hands is creeping up under her pyjama top, stroking her ribs. She’s fairly sure it’s his bow hand, because she can feel the callouses, and she curls her toes with pleasure as he finds one of her breasts, kneading gently.

Then she catches at his split lip with her teeth and he hisses in pain.

“Oliver.”

“Felicity,” his voice still has that purr in it.

“You said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I said I’d cope.” His smile is dry, “kiss me again.”

Felicity puts a thumb on his chin. “You have fractured ribs. And you’re all cut up and sore – Oliver – ”

“I’ve survived worse than you, Felicity.”

“Evidently.”

His mouth quirks, and she lets his nose brush hers, his breath warm. She remembers how he smelled that night in Nanda Parbat – earthy and human – how he’d tasted under her tongue, the sweat and heat of him, the way he’d groaned her name as he came inside her – all the messy, aching unglamorous things about sex which wouldn’t be even a little sexy in any other context but – just… god yeah she wants those things with Oliver. Again.

“I want you,” he murmurs, glancing up at her, all sad puppy again, “I can do this, Felicity – if you want me, let’s just…”

“How? You’re so sore you can barely move,” Felicity props herself up on an elbow, raising a sceptical eyebrow at him, “how’re we going to make this work, hm, mister? You got a plan? Half a plan?”

Oliver’s smile makes his eyes lighten, even in the dim glow of her bedside lamp, his face half shadowed. “You said I should learn to let people help me.”

Felicity laughs. “Work, work, work.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

Felicity sits up, and peels off her pyjama top, and enjoys the way he looks at her, his hand on her ribs, his gaze hopeful and hungry. She reaches for his boxers, ghosts her hand over them for a moment, teasing him, just a little – until he hisses with something that isn’t pain – and she leans down to kiss him whilst she reaches into his underwear.

If he’s careful and goes slowly, Oliver can just about get most of the way onto his side. And Felicity, peeling off her pyjama pants (she just shouldn’t have bothered putting on pyjamas at all, should she? This was all bit a inevitable, really), can lie pressed against him, chest to chest, canting her hips just so. She reaches between them to position him against her, and Oliver groans at the contact and Felicity thinks _that’s the best sound I’ve heard in three days_ and then hooks one thigh over his hip so he can slide into her.

It’s home, this feeling. The familiarity of it already: the sweet, bruising ache inside her that crests over a thick, syrupy pleasure coursing up from her core; the way Oliver’s brow furrows just like it did when they did this the first time, the way his breath hitches and his shoulders tense, the way his hands shake. Even under the tar pit smell – which admittedly is not bothering her so much right now – he smells like himself, like he did in Nanda Parbat, like he always will – his skin and his sweat and his mouth as he crushes it to hers, all of these things are somehow her own.

Felicity wraps herself around him as tightly as she can, and moves because Oliver can’t really, poor sad puppy that he is. It’s clumsy and a little awkward, and half way through her leg cramps up and they have to do some ridiculously unsexy human tetris with their thighs to be able to keep Oliver inside her at this angle, but it’s still them, it’s still safe and brilliant and funny and warm. Oliver laughs and holds her thigh for her as she repositions them, and kisses her forehead and looks at her like she’s a goddamn miracle in his arms, and Felicity wants to cling to this moment tight enough to somehow imprint it on her skin, keep it forever.

She keeps one hand between them so she can touch herself, rubbing quick, careful circles as she rocks her hips against him, as he eases in and out of her as much as he can, and he holds onto her, mumbling lovely, corny, ridiculous things into her shoulder.

It’s not the easiest or the most glamorous way to reach orgasm but that’s not really the point of what they’re about here, is it? This is something else – bonding, reconnecting, generally being pleased with how miraculously not dead either of them are. Felicity doesn’t want it to be over too soon – she eases on and off her fingers, keeps Oliver’s rhyhtm steady and slow until he makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat and she giggles into his shoulder.

“Steady, mister.”

“I want – Felicity – ”

“Slow,” she whispers back, “please – let’s take our time, mm?”

He groans, but his mouth twitches into a smile as she eases up against him – he’s all the way inside her and it’s filling Felicity’s head with a brilliant, static buzz that she’d like to bathe in for as long as is physically possible, please.

“Okay – okay – slow – I can… I can go slow…”

“Good.”

He kisses his way along her shoulder, up her neck, her jaw, her ear. “ _Love you_ ,” he mutters, there, his voice thick and exhausted but sure as his grip on her, “love you so much, F’licity.”

“I love you,” Felicity sighs, back, “I missed you –“

“I missed you too – I never stopped thinking about you, I never stopped, not once – _god_ – ”

Felicity shivers over the edge after another ten minutes or so, her skin tacky with Oliver’s sweat, biting at Oliver’s throat as he feels her tense and shake, crushing her to his chest with one arm, the other still holding her thigh. He finishes not long after, groaning low in his chest. Felicity reaches up to kiss him as he slips free of her, feeling for the heat of his gasping, open mouth, touching her tongue to his – a momentary further connection that makes him smile against her lips.

In Nanda Parbat, in the immediate, quiet afterglow, she’d spent a long time stroking his face, tracing her fingers over his scars and tattoos, trying to commit every inch of this – of him – to memory, in case they’d never have another chance. He’d watched her the whole time, sleepy and affectionate, and then he’d teased her about how he’d never seen her so quiet before.

Now, as they huddle together, sharing heat and sweat and breath, Felicity pushes Oliver back onto his back, careful to not disturb the binding on his ribs or any of his freshly sutured wounds. She lays her head on his chest for a moment, listening to his heartbeat slowly returning to normal and letting herself enjoy the way he’s tangling his fingers through her hair.

A couple of his cuts have started bleeding again, and she sits up to reach for a cloth, but he catches her wrist.

“Stay.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I don’t care.”

Felicity leans down and kisses him again, smoothing his forehead. “Well, I care about the state of my sheets, okay? It’ll just take a moment.”

She climbs out of bed, grabs the cloth she’s been using and pads to her bathroom to run it under the hot tap – thinks better of it and fills a bowl with fresh water. Oliver pretends to be grumpy about it as she cleans up his wounds, and attends the mess they’ve both managed to make with certain other bodily fluids on the sheets; but he can’t complain too heavily when she runs a clean, damp cloth over his groin, smoothing her jaw as he kisses her, his breath hitching.

“See, you don’t mind, really,” Felicity murmurs, and feels him smile. She sits up, assessing him, her big, strong, grumpy vigilante boyfriend, naked and wounded and watching her like she’s every birthday come at once. “Now, I’m going to order us some food, and you’re gonna take some pain killers, and then we’ll go to sleep, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His smile in only gently teasing. She gives him another kiss, because she can and she’s getting used to how easy it is.

“Do you want Pizza or Chinese food? Or Thai?”

“Pizza.”

“Okay.”

“Pepperoni.”

“Coming right up.”

She orders ice cream with the pizza, because right now that’s all she wants. Ice cream, and Oliver Queen.

Oliver eats his pepperoni pizza propped a little stiffly against her pillows, the box open in his lap, and she snuggles up against his chest spooning mint choc chip out of the carton, and they talk quietly about what they may or may not do next.

“I’ll marry you, Felicity, I’m serious.”

“Jeez, Oliver, take a girl out to dinner a couple of times first.”

“This doesn’t count?”

“This is in, not out.”

“Okay fine. And then I’ll marry you.”

Felicity smiles, because he means it, doesn’t he? Damn. And also _thank god._


End file.
